


The Road Ahead (Is Shrouded In Shadows)

by ThetaSigma



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Psych Ward, Suicide Attempt, tw: suicide attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 13:42:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12818784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThetaSigma/pseuds/ThetaSigma
Summary: Sherlock returns from his two years away to realize his death utterly broke John Watson. John is in a psych ward following a suicide attempt, and the doctors have no hope of letting him out again. They have to move past John's terror of Sherlock dying in front of him, and Sherlock's guilt and own trauma of the past two years before attempting any relationship and going back to the way they were, and the road ahead isn't easy, especially since they both want to skip to the end. However, their friends are committed to forcing them to acknowledge their issues.





	1. What of John?

Sherlock sat up. “I’m done with this debriefing. You’re avoiding the topic I care about, Mycroft, don’t think I haven’t noticed. John.”

Mycroft looked away. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. Mycroft _never_ avoided eye contact.

“Mycroft.” He stood up and stormed over. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Sit down, Sherlock.”

“No. Tell me. What is going on?”

“I’ll tell you. But you’ll want to be sitting for this.”

“Is he safe?”

“Very. He’s in a safe place in the countryside. Has been for months. Sherlock. Sit. Down. It’s a long story.”

Sherlock sat. “Make it a short one, then.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I can’t, Sherlock. You need to know it all before I let you see him. We can’t blunder again. We… blundered. Several times.”

“What was the first _blunder_?” Sherlock asked viciously.

“Your death. We… miscalculated. He _grieved_ , Sherlock.”

“That was the _point_ , Mycroft. He had to grieve. He had to be seen grieving. No one would buy it otherwise. It was to keep him safe.”

“No, Sherlock, I mean, he was devastated. Completely broken by it. We – you and I – didn’t account for that. His limp came back. He started drinking the day after the funeral and he didn’t stop. I visited him at 221B the day before the funeral and he threw a tumbler at my head.”

“Good for him,” Sherlock said viciously. “I’ve often been tempted to do that.”

“He blamed me for your death. Said if I hadn’t given Moriarty the details of your life…”

“So… what, you stopped checking up on him?”

“No, I went back. He threw as many things as he had on hand at my head. Including the vodka bottle he was drinking from.” Mycroft paused. “I required stitches. Admittedly, I won’t say I didn’t deserve that. At least, I won’t say that he didn’t think I didn’t deserve that.” He sighed. “He told me if I ever darkened his door again, he would shoot me. I was inclined to take him seriously.”

Sherlock nodded. He could believe it of John. “You didn’t stop monitoring him, though.”

“No. Greg checked on him. John threw things at _his_ head, too.”

“Greg?”

Mycroft sighed. “Sherlock. DI Greg Lestrade. Please. For this conversation, _endeavor_ to remember that name. You can delete it again after. But it _will_ go faster if you remember that it’s _Greg_ Lestrade.”

Sherlock waved a hand. “So John threw things at Lestrade too.”

“Greg ducks faster than I do. John blamed him, too. For turning on you.”

“Did Lestrade stop checking?”

“No. Greg sat with him during the funeral, and after, they talked. Well. Greg talked. Told him he never doubted. That he had to follow it up. That there was evidence – _manufactured_ evidence, yes – but that he couldn’t just ignore it. He swore he didn’t know it would lead to this. He was sick with guilt himself. John stopped throwing things at his head.”

“Good. I don’t blame Lestrade. I know he didn’t doubt me. And don’t think I’ve missed you calling him _Greg_ , by the way, Mycroft.”

“Not the time, brother mine.”

“Okay, so he was devastated, angry, and drinking. It’s been two years, Mycroft. What. Happened.”

“He moved out of 221B two weeks after your ‘death’. Said he couldn’t look at your things any longer. I kept paying your rent, of course.”

Sherlock waved that off. “I don’t care about that, brother mine, I care about _John_.”

“Greg kept checking up on him. Texts. Visits. A _lot_ of visits. I had a CCTV camera installed at the door to the building. John never left it after he moved in. For any reason. He quit his job 2 months after your death – he had been on leave until then – and he ordered the occasional takeaway. Alcohol he had delivered. Everything else, _I_ had delivered.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said softly. “Thank you for doing that.”

Mycroft waved that off. “Greg came in one day, maybe 9, 10 weeks after your death to find John playing with his SIG.”

Sherlock _paled_. “No. John.”

“Greg took the SIG, Sherlock. He took the SIG, and he checked the flat to make sure John hadn’t taken your Browning with him when he left 221B. He hadn’t.” Mycroft sighed heavily. “And that was our other blunder.”

“Taking the gun?”

“Not committing him then. Greg and I talked about it. We did, Sherlock, I promise. At length. But we didn’t… John promised he wouldn’t shoot himself. He was very specific about that.” Mycroft gave a dry humorless chuckle. “Picked up something from you, I suppose.”

“Mycroft. Tell me what he did.”

“We forgot he was a doctor,” Mycroft said sadly, softly. “Greg went to check on him two days later. John had overdosed. Not his first choice of death, I guess, but he certainly knew _how_. He left a note. I still have it – I thought you’d want to see it. Greg had the paramedics there within minutes, saved his life. John was in hospital for several weeks – he knew what he was doing. Well. Obviously. We had all remembered he was a soldier. We forgot he was also a _doctor_. And he had been specific – Greg remembered that every time he got John to promise that night, John said, ‘Greg, I won’t shoot myself’. That’s all.”

“He’s alive?” Sherlock confirmed. “He lived? He’s… not…”

“He’s… he’s not fine, Sherlock, but he’s alive. And unharmed. He pulled through. Not that he thanks us for that.”

“How is he not fine?”

“He’s still depressed,” Mycroft said. “That’s why he’s in the countryside. Secure private psychiatric hospital. After the doctors finally said he was healed, they committed him. Because he still wasn’t ready to be released. And several weeks went by, and it was clear he wasn’t getting better. Although maybe if he had consented to antidepressants…”

“John wouldn’t.”

“John _didn’t_.” Mycroft rubbed his face. “The psychiatric hospital he was in was a short-term one. They made it clear that John needed to be placed in a long-term facility, and I agreed.”

“ _You_ agreed? What about John?”

“While he was recovering, John and I had a talk. John’s only living relative is Harriet Watson, who is not capable of being anyone’s legal guardian. I offered to be his.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “He told you to sod off, didn’t he?”

“Creatively.”

“You persisted.”

“I did. Greg talked to him, too. Greg, John, _and_ I had a talk, finally. I told him I wouldn’t make any medication decisions for him – I’d respect his autonomy there. I _would_ make sure that they wouldn’t discharge him before he was ready – by _my_ estimate, not _his_. I would make sure that he had the best care possible, and obviously would take care of any financial needs. John asked me why I would bother.”

“I would _love_ to know what you said to that, Mycroft,” Sherlock said. “What did you say that made John agree?”

Mycroft looked him in the eye. “I told him, ‘my brother loved you. That is enough for me to make sure that you are taken care of.’”

Sherlock looked away. “Did it work?”

“He signed the papers. I found him a facility in the country, like I’ve said. And I review his progress daily.”

“And?”

“And he won’t be getting out any time soon, Sherlock. He participates in therapy, he talks to his peers, and he’s cautiously friendly with them. Greg visits once a week for several hours. I visit at least once a month – he warmed up to me somewhat. Harriet visits.”

“Harry?” Sherlock asked sharply. “They don’t get along.”

“The one bright spot in all this has been that Harriet Watson is finally sober. Her brother’s suicide attempt was what did it. She has been sober almost the entire two years you’ve been gone. And every day, they ask John, ‘What would you do if we let you out today?’”

Sherlock whispered, “What does he say?”

“He says, pleasantly, they tell me, ‘I’d kill myself so I could join Sherlock’. You see why we’re not letting him out.”

Sherlock stood up. “I want to see him, Mycroft. I _need_ to see him.”

“You will. Seeing you may be the only thing that would bring him back from this. But you’ll go with Greg, when he visits next. John’s going to be shocked, and angry, and _hurt_ , and I’m not sending you in alone. Greg’s gotten very close with John, and John’s going to need that support.”

Sherlock scowled. “Today. Please. _Please_. It’s been two years, Mycroft. I _need_ John. After this – after what you told me… I need to see he’s okay. Call Greg. Ask him to… Mycroft.”

Mycroft looked at Sherlock for a long time, then reached for his phone. “That’s the first time you’ve called him ‘Greg’,” Mycroft said mildly. “You really are desperate.”

Sherlock ignored that. “Let me see the note, while we wait.”

Mycroft handed it over. Sherlock read it silently.

_So. Yeah, this is my note. That’s what people do, isn’t it? Leave a note?_

_Greg – you were a good friend. I want you to know that. You were. Please don’t think you weren’t. You were there for me, and you couldn’t have been more there for me. Please don’t blame yourself. You would have had to move in and hover 24/7 to stop me._

_Mycroft – burn in fucking hell._

_Harry – I’m sorry. I’m sorry we weren’t closer. I’m sorry I failed you. Take care of yourself, yeah?_

_Sherlock gave my life meaning again. Hell, I think he gave my life meaning period. I don’t want to live without him. Bury me next to him, please. All I ask is that you bury me in his grave. His tombstone has room for my name._

_Mycroft, you owe me that much. Let me be next to him in death._

_John H. Watson._

Sherlock looked up, tears trembling. “I hurt him. I hurt him _so much_ ,” he breathed. “Would you have?”

“Would I have what?”

“Buried him in my grave.”

“Without hesitation.”


	2. Tell Me The Story of John Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg shows up to find out Sherlock is alive. He has plenty of things to say about that.

“Greg’s on his way,” Mycroft said. “You realize it’ll be a shock to him, too?”

Sherlock waved that off. 

“He’ll be angry, Sherlock.”

“As long as I see John, I’ll deal with that.”

Greg burst in. “Mycroft, you said you had news…” he trailed off, taking in the man sitting across from Mycroft. “You _bastard_.”

“Which one of us?” Mycroft asked.

“I… both. Both of you,” Greg decided. “Because you knew, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I did.”

“You knew, for _two years_ , and you _didn’t tell me_.”

“I need to see John,” Sherlock said, standing up. “You two can have your lovers’ quarrel later.”

“And we _will_ ,” Greg said, staring at Mycroft. “And John needs to see you too, mate. But he’s gonna be _pissed_.”

“I know,” Sherlock said softly. “I deserve that.”

“Good,” Greg said fiercely. “You put that man through hell, Sherlock Holmes. If he decides to properly kill you this time, I’m not inclined to stop him. Just so you know.”

“I deserve it,” Sherlock said. “John. Now.”

“No,” Greg said firmly. “Not yet.”

Sherlock frowned. “What do you mean? You said…”

“I know what I said, Sherlock. But not _yet_. Look, I know how this is going to go if we go now. You’re going to surprise him that you’re back. He’s going to be hurt and angry and surprised and pleased and mainly _angry_. He’s going to punch you, probably, and try to strangle you, and the nurses are going to have to pull him off, and put him on some kind of watch, and you’re going to have to stay away for a bit, which is going to _kill_ John, and you’re going to go back, and beg for his forgiveness, and he’s going to give it to you, because you’re you, and he’s John, and he adores you, and all he’s wanted for _two years_ is you to be alive. And he’ll forgive _anything_ if it means you’re here and alive.”

“Not seeing the problem.”

“And you won’t talk about any of this,” Greg kept going. “You won’t talk about what you were up to in those two years, or why you did it – you’ll tell him the _how_ , but not the _why_ – and you won’t talk about what the hell happened to him. He won’t tell you just what he went through these past two years. So, Sherlock Holmes, before you confront John, you are going to learn what John Watson’s life has been these past two years.”

Sherlock scowled. “My life has not exactly been a picnic either. It wasn’t some Grand Tour.”

“John should hear it first,” Greg said. “I’m sure I’ll hear it too, from you or Mycroft or John, but you owe it to John to tell him first. And I owe it to John to tell you what you put him through with this stunt, Sherlock.”

Sherlock flopped back into the chair dramatically. “Then tell me, I suppose. But don’t be boring.”

“No. You don’t get to put limits on this. You don’t get to tell me how to tell this. You are going to listen to every word, no matter how _boring_ you find it, because it’s about John, and it’s important you know this. Because I’m not having you break his heart again. I already picked up the pieces once. I can’t do it again. Sherlock. Do you understand me? He’s in a psych hospital long term. The doctors there have resigned themselves to never letting him out. If you don’t understand what seeing you will do to him, I won’t let him see you.”

Sherlock looked mutinous. 

Mycroft looked impressed. 

“Don’t tell me you _agree_ with him!” Sherlock demanded.

“Sherlock, you _know_ I get daily reports,” Mycroft said. “His condition isn’t good. Greg’s right. You don’t know the damage you caused. Why don’t you listen and find out?”

“Tell me, then,” Sherlock said, steepling his hands under his chin. “Tell me the story of John Watson.”


	3. The Story of John Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of John's story, as told by Greg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When the scene goes into italics, Greg's remembering but not telling Sherlock it.

“You killed yourself in front of him,” Greg started. “You killed yourself in front of him, and you didn’t think that would cause any lasting damage?”

“I had no choice, he came back too early, I tried to send him away,” Sherlock said desperately. “I didn’t want to. I didn’t.”

Greg softened at this. “Okay. I believe you. But you did. You made him watch you jump off a roof. Sherlock, he has nightmares about this most nights. No more Afghanistan. Just… you, every night. Every night, that phone call you made. Telling him you’re a fraud. Your last words. ‘Goodbye, John.’ Then jumping. Him running to you. He hasn’t slept properly in months. He refuses meds. He wakes up screaming – they can’t give him a roommate because of it. They tried, over a year and a half ago, and he woke up screaming so often that they gave up. A nurse has to be on duty to wake him up when he starts thrashing in his sleep.”

Sherlock looked pained. “PTSD,” he said softly. “I… John, I’m sorry,” he said so quietly the other two had to strain to hear.

Greg sighed. “Look, I should start at the beginning, I guess.”

“Admirable,” Sherlock tried to drawl, but his voice was so full of pain it was a shadow of its usual arrogance.

*** 

Greg knocked on the door to 221B. Mrs Hudson had let him in downstairs after he had waited outside for nearly ten minutes. She had been unusually restrained, clearly fighting tears but trying to be strong. She barely said anything. What was there to say? 

Greg waited. No one called out to him to come in, or to go away, which was Sherlock’s preferred method of greeting. Right. Sherlock was dead. Sherlock would never again tell him _go away_. 

No one was coming to the door, either.

“Oh, dear, John hasn’t been answering,” Mrs Hudson sighed, coming up behind him. “He’s barely moved, that poor boy. All he’s done is plan the funeral and cry. Just go in, Detective Inspector, I’m sure he’ll want to see you.”

“John’s planning the funeral?” Greg asked. “Not Mycroft? They were brothers.” He was surprised.

Mrs Hudson tutted. “Would John let anyone else?”

Greg pushed the door open. “John? John, it’s Greg.”

A tumbler flew through the air towards Greg’s head, and Greg ducked quickly. “John!”

“Go the _fuck_ away,” John snapped. “If you think you can come in here, after what you did, you can go burn in hell. And while you’re burning in hell, tell Mycroft ‘hello’ from me, would you?”

“John,” Greg said. “I want to – ”

A book flew at his head next. Greg ducked again.

“Okay, okay, I’ll check on you later, clearly a bad time.”

Greg rushed down the stairs.

*** 

Greg tried not to cry during the funeral. He did.

But John looked abjectly miserable as he stood in front of the closed casket and fiddled with his slip of paper. “I… I don’t know what to say,” John admitted. “I don’t. How can I sum up Sherlock Holmes’ life in one speech?” he asked plaintively. “How can _anyone_? Sherlock was my best friend. Sherlock was the best person I ever met, the most brilliant, the most _human_ , the most wonderful. I can’t remember my life before him, and I can’t imagine my life without him, but I’m going to have to now.” Tears ran down his face.

“Sherlock wasn’t a fraud,” he said stubbornly. “And I don’t want to make this speech about that, but I have to say it. I lived with him for almost two years. He did that deducing every day, about everything. It was automatic, it was quickfire, it was about everyone and everything. He was real.

“And he had body parts in the fridge and sulked for days and he ran around crime scenes like a five year old let loose in a candy shop and he played the violin at three in the morning and I am going to miss him _so fucking much it hurts_ ,” John said. “Before Sherlock, I never had to check the Tupperware to see if it was lasagna or intestines. I don’t know what it says about me that I’m going to miss that.” Greg gave a watery half-sob, half-chuckle at that.

“Sherlock saved my life,” John said, hastily wiping tears away, only to have more run down his face. “I was so hopeless before I met him, and within days, I had something to live for again. That was all him, all because of him, and I only wish I could have given him the same. And I know everyone here was touched by him in some way, helped by him, and I’d say he’d be happy about that, but he’d probably scoff and say ‘sentiment’ or some silly thing, and I just wish he’d come back and _say that_ because I still can’t accept he’s actually gone.”

Greg knew how John felt. Greg felt the same. How could Sherlock just be _gone_? It was wrong. Sherlock couldn’t be _dead._

“He is, and I know he can’t hear me, but thank you, Sherlock, for being the greatest friend, and best human, anyone could ever ask for. Body parts in the fridge and all.”

John lurched to his seat and let the sobs take him. Greg slipped up to sit next to him, testing to see if John would allow a reassuring hand on his arm. John didn’t shake it off, so Greg left it there. He was crying, too, he wasn’t too ashamed to admit that. Because there was something _so wrong_ about Sherlock’s body in a fucking _coffin_ like this.

*** 

Greg entered 221B again. “John?” he called. “John, it’s Greg.”

A glass flew through the air at his head, and Greg ducked. “Oh, come on, I thought we were doing better!” he protested.

“It was a weak moment,” John snapped.

“John, please,” Greg said. “Please. I never doubted him. Ever.”

John paused, clearly ready to hurl another projectile. “You _arrested_ him. You arrested him, and caused his downfall, and he jumped off a fucking building _in front of me_ , and now my best friend is dead, and I can’t live like this, Greg, I can’t. Sherlock’s dead, and it’s _your_ fault, and Mycroft’s, and that bitch Donovan’s, and that prick Anderson’s, and that motherfucking asshole Moriarty’s, and Mycroft better have Baskerville invent a way to bring Moriarty back from the dead so I can torture him to death.”

Greg moved closer cautiously, read to duck again. “John. Listen, please. Throw whatever you like, but at least _listen_. I didn’t doubt him. I _didn’t_. I saw Sherlock in action for years.”

Something flew at his head. Greg ducked again. 

“Sherlock managed to do that kind of work _high_ ,” Greg persisted. “ _No one_ could have pulled that kind of thing off unless they were the real deal. I _know_ that. That’s how I met him. He wandered into my crime scene high as a kite, told me I was an idiot who couldn’t find my arse if he handed me a map, told me to find a blue shopping trolley, and wandered off again. I found him the blue shopping trolley – covered in blood, by the way – arrested the murdered, and found him scoring his next fix. I asked him how the _hell_ he knew about any of that, and he gave me a long-suffering sigh and told me that if I had had any brains, I would have pieced it together myself. Then he asked me if I wanted any coke.”

John tried not to laugh at that. He didn’t succeed. He threw a book at Greg’s head. Greg ducked and reflected John likely threw it to make himself feel better about laughing at anything.

“I told him _no_ of _course_ I didn’t want any fucking _cocaine_ , arrested him for possessing _cocaine_ , and learned that if you collar Sherlock fucking Holmes, _Mycroft_ fucking Holmes shows up. And so began my association with the goddamn Holmeses. We arranged for Sherlock to solve crimes with me _provided_ he stay clean. He stayed clean. I gave him cases. I _never_ doubted him, John.”

John looked ready to chuck something else at Greg’s head. “You _arrested him_.”

“Donovan and Anderson brought me evidence, John,” Greg said heavily. “I tried to ignore it. I did. They lodged it formally, though, and suddenly I had my superiors breathing down my neck about Sherlock. John, you were in the military. You know about following orders you _do not agree with_. That’s all I did.” He paused and rubbed his face. “I shouldn’t have done it. I agree. I should have told them to fuck themselves, that Sherlock was worth more than the rest of Scotland Yard. I should have punched the Commissioner myself – thank you for doing so for me. I didn’t. But I _never_ thought Sherlock was a fraud. I _knew_ Sherlock was for real.”

John nodded and put down the book he had been aiming at Greg’s head. “He’s dead,” John said bitterly. “He’s dead, and I don’t know what to do now.” He waved his hand around. “I keep waiting for him to show up. To stomp up the stairs demanding something. Or to tell me you texted him with a case. Or to call me an idiot. Anything. Oh God, anything, I just want _anything_ from him.”

Greg went to sit down. John said sharply, “Not there!”

Greg looked puzzled.

“That’s Sherlock’s chair. Sit on the sofa. I don’t want anyone sitting in his chair.”

Greg nodded. “How are you holding up?” he asked, stupidly.

John laughed bitterly. “How do you think? Sherlock was… _everything_. Oh, I have other friends. I have a job. I dated for a while. But I go to start conversations and go, ‘Sherlock…’ and think, no, Sherlock will never again call me mid-shift to tell me you texted him there’s a triple homicide. Or Sherlock will never show up at the pub I’m at because he’s bored and done talking to his skull for the night.”

Greg frowned. “His _skull_?”

John pointed at the mantel. “Billy. The skull. His other friend. I was filling in for him for a while. I think after a couple months, Billy filled in for me when I was gone.” He swallowed heavily. “Sherlock will never again call me so many times on a date that my girlfriend throws something and tells me that if I can’t figure out who I’m dating, she won’t have anything to do with me.” He laughed bitterly. “What does it say about me that I’m going to _miss that_?”

“That he probably slipped you some kind of drug in your coffee?”

“He did that,” John confirmed. “Remember Baskerville? He drugged my coffee there. I’ve learned not to accept coffee from him. Or, you know, anything really, he tended to only give me liquids when he was trying to drug me.”

“What I never understood was why you stayed so long.”

_John looked at him. Really looked. Stared into his eyes. “I loved him,” John said. “Didn’t you_ know _? You all certainly made enough jokes about it.”_

_Greg felt his world drop out from under him. “We were just taking the piss, mate. I didn’t… I didn’t realize it actually was like that.”_

_John gave a bitter laugh. “It wasn’t. He told me that first night we met. ‘Thanks, John, but you should know, I consider myself married to my work’. That’s a pretty clear rejection. I never told him. I didn’t want to make it awkward, I didn’t want him to leave, I didn’t want him to want me to leave. It was enough to be here, to be around him, most days.” He looked around, taking in everything of Sherlock’s. “And now I’ll never be able to tell him. I wish I had. I wish I had, that last phone call. I wish I had told him, before he jumped, that I loved him, that he was_ loved _, fiercely and completely. Maybe it would have stopped him.”_

_“Why didn’t you?” Greg asked quietly._

_“Because it would have hurt so, so much more if he jumped after I said that,” John said. “Because if he still jumped after that…. Greg, he took my heart with him when he jumped. I don’t know what he would have taken with him if he jumped after I said that.” He shook himself. “I need a drink. Scotch?” he asked Greg._

_“Please.”_

***

Sherlock’s voice cut into Greg’s musings. “What did he say?” Sherlock demanded. “Why did he stay?”

Greg started. He thought quickly. John’s love for Sherlock – his decidedly _romantic_ love for Sherlock – was something John needed to tell him. He glanced at Mycroft, who raised an eyebrow. Ah, agreement, good. Greg had gotten good at reading Mycroft these past months.

“Because you were his best friend,” Greg said simply. “Didn’t you know?”

“I… I’ve never been anyone’s best friend before,” Sherlock mumbled. 

“He told me he wished he had told you that during the phone call. Made you understood how very much you meant to him. Said he feels like he failed you.”

“He didn’t. He _did_ make me understand how much I meant,” Sherlock said firmly. 

“Your actions sorta suggested otherwise at the time,” Greg said dryly. “And, given that I don’t know why you did it, continue to.” He held up a hand. “John gets the story first, _not me_.”

Sherlock nodded. “Keep going.”


End file.
